A Way Back
by thesilversun
Summary: Canon divergent AU from end of Parting of the Ways through The Christmas Invasion. The Doctor doesn't regenerate after taking the time vortex from Rose. It doesn't mean he is okay though, far from it. Ninth Doctor/Rose.
1. Part 1

He was burning. Every cell, every nerve ending, every synapse felt as if it were on fire as the conflagration of Time Vortex energy, regeneration energy and his body's own desire to repair itself fought for control.

Stumbling away from Rose, the Doctor doubled over, barely successful in stifling a cry as he did so. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe, desperate to spare her the knowledge of the depth of pain he found himself in.

It would only few more seconds, a minute at most, he told himself, and then it would all be over and he'd have to get used to being somebody else. He'd had difficult regenerations before, but most of those had been in the minutes or hours after the change. He couldn't remember any being so uniquely painful or drawn out in the time preceding the regeneration. Not that coherent thought or analysis of the situation was particularly possible at that moment.

The regeneration energy flared as he knew it would, bright, brilliant and agonising in its intensity. Resigned to what was about to happen to him he didn't fight it as it drove him to his knees. Then at the last moment, as he was all but engulfed by it, the impossible happened: it started to falter, the energy sparking and shorting along raw nerves, flickering erratically like a guttering candle, until finally it was snuffed out.

An agonised cry escaped him as the realisation of what had happened overwhelmed him. The regeneration had failed. He was going to die. Perhaps the damage from the vortex energy had been too great or maybe without Gallifrey, without the rest of his kind, regeneration was no longer possible, he didn't know. How could anyone know? Whatever the answer was it was bitterly unfair.

A harsh, wracking sob shook him. He didn't want to die. He wasn't ready, not now, not like this. Not with Rose watching him with wide, terrified eyes. Yet he had no energy left to fight against it and he felt himself start to topple forwards.

Ignoring what he had told her earlier about keeping her distance, Rose ran in front of him, catching him before he fell and letting him slump forward against her.

"'M sorry," he slurred. Clinging to her, he tried and failed to ride out another wave of pain in silence.

"Doctor?" Rose looked at him her eyes filled with tears. "What's happening? What's wrong?"

It broke his hearts to look at her and he turned his face against her shoulder. At least he could spare her the sight of his own tears, it was all that was left that he could do for her. "Dying, I'm s-" He stopped choking on emotions that were as strong as the pain itself.

"You're not dying. You're not." It was as much a sob as it was an order, but there was fierce determination behind it was as strong as the time vortex itself. "I'm not gonna let you. Now get up."

It seemed an impossible request, but somehow with Rose's support the Doctor found himself on his feet once more. Breathing hurt, the air he needed seeming to scour his lungs like ground glass, but for her he'd try to keep breathing. Rose had a plan. She'd already saved him in more ways than she could ever know. He trusted her, had to trust her, he had nobody else. So when she told him to walk, somehow he found the energy to force himself to keep moving.

"In here," she said, halting outside a door.

Through a growing haze, he recognised the zero room. He wanted to tell her that it had never been meant for this, that it held almost no hope of success, that even if she knew how to activate any of it, the chances were it was too late, but the words wouldn't come. None would. He was vaguely aware that his temperature had been steadily climbingn from a perfectly normal Gallifreyan 15C to a delirium inducing 41C. Even with his species' ability to withstand substantial ranges of body temperature this was reaching the upper limits of what could be withstood for more than a few minute without serious consequences.

A muscle twitched in his neck, then his whole body seemed to seize, pitching him forwards out of Rose's grasp and onto the floor. He was barely conscious as his arms and legs spasmed, pain and fever spiking higher and higher until it engulfed him, toppling him over the edge into oblivion.

 **Notes** :

The Zero room is borrowed from Classic Who and from the 8th Doctor novels. While the normal Gallifreyan body temperature is from an 8th Doctor audio adventure. They do not outright contradicted in New!Who and they work for this story so I have chosen to use them.


	2. Part 2

Part 2 A Way Back

Heat and pain throbbed through every atom of his being, but if he'd had the energy the Doctor would have laughed and shouted for joy. He was alive and conscious: it was so more than he ever thought he would be again.

Opening his eyes was an effort and the dim light hurt, but the sight that greeted him was, he decided, reward enough. Sleeping in a chair by his bed, so wonderfully alive and stubbornly, brilliantly human was Rose.

Exhausted, but relieved, he slipped back into fevered sleep.

Worlds were burning, the final, terrible conflagration of time and reality. A funeral pyre of all the hopes and dreams of a thousand different species. And in the centre of it he stands motionless as the fire consumes him. But he doesn't die. He feels every flame dance against his skin, until it burnt away. It's his punishment. He's screaming.

The Doctor woke choking on fear, his hearts pounding so he could hardly draw breath. He was so hot. Was he still burning, he could feel the sweat running down his face, pooling in the hollows of his collar bones. Fearful, half expecting to see burnt and blackened flesh he forced himself to open his eyes and look at his hand.

There are no flames or scorched skin, just Rose gently placing a cool cloth on his forehead. "It was just a dream," she said, voice trembling. "Just another bad dream."

Without her make up, only faint traces of smudged mascara were left around her eyes, she looked so very young. And for a moment the Doctor considered that he might be imagining her. He discounted that possibility almost immediately: his subconscious didn't give him images that stilled emptiness and rage inside, not anymore, not after what he had done. He didn't deserve it.

"Rose." His throat hurt and it occurred to him that perhaps something of the screaming hadn't only been in his fevered mind.

Rose stared at him for a moment, then without a word held him tight.

He can feel her arms, her tears too, against his bare skin. She must have stripped him in a effort to break the fever that still raged through him. He's embarrassed for her, that she should have had to do something like that for him. He grateful though, stupidly pathetically grateful, and for a moment thinks he might even admit it. He swallows hard, his dry throat constricting. Just how ill was he that he'd no memory of it? Fearful, he asked, "How long?"

"A day, maybe a bit more," Rose replied, still holding him close. Then with a shaky breath she released him and wiped her eyes. "But you're back now."

"Be back on my feet in no time," the Doctor said, knowing that she was putting a brave face on for him. "Don't you worry 'bout me."

"I do though. Now you need to drink something." Rose picked up a mug of water and turned back to him. "So no arguing."

There was a finality about it that stopped him, realisation dawning. She needed this moment, to feel like she could control something, that she what she'd was doing was helping. He couldn't bear to take that away from her, so meekly let her hold the mug to his lips so he could drink.

As another day passed in an uncomfortable haze the Doctor came to the inescapable conclusion that the zero room wasn't helping. It had managed to stabilise him, so at least he wasn't actively dying, despite how awful he felt, but it wasn't healing him. The problem was the fever that continued to burn through him unabated. In moments when it dipped enough for lucidity to return he was aware that this was not how Time Lords were supposed to heal. When they were sick or poisoned they went cold, their core temperature falling down to near freezing if they could. Then they'd stay there for days, weeks even, ice cold and still, barely breathing while they recovered. Finally, when the process was complete they'd wake up, hungry and thirsty, but none the worse for the experience. Physically at least.

The Doctor tried to roll over and find a more comfortable position, but gave up with a groan as the deep-seated ache in his muscles flared into something brighter and sharper. Frustrated, he glared at the ceiling, until the lights seemed too bright and he was forced to close them.

He detested being sick. He'd had quite enough of a body that had been physically unreliable with he previous regeneration. One of the few things he'd actually liked about his current form was that it rarely seemed to get ill and when it did it recovered quickly.

He wasn't recovering quickly now, he thought miserably. He wasn't even sure he was recovering at all. Nothing seemed to cool him, neither the chill air of the room or damp cloth that Rose had placed on his aching head seemed to help. He tried to console himself with the thought that it couldn't go on forever, nothing did, eventually the fever would have to break. Until then however he would have have to endure it.

That however made problems of its own, as while he was reasonably confident whatever was wrong with him wouldn't kill him or cause any lasting harm - Time Lords were as tough as old boots when it came down to it - he could hardly expect Rose to take care of him all by herself. She'd been through more than enough. She'd already been exhausted from looking into the heart of the TARDIS, and taking care of him while he raved delirious and useless hadn't done her any good either.

If Jack had been there they could have taken turns, he could have helped her, got her to rest, but Jack was gone. The Doctor tried to force the thought away. The memory of the kiss and the look in his eyes before he left for what he knew would be his death was painful. He couldn't allow himself time think about Jack yet. Brave, incorrigible, irrepressible Jack, who'd loved them both, who'd died for them both.

They'd not spoken of him yet. The silent knowledge of what he'd done for them uniting them in grief they had yet to release. That was yet another reason he needed to Rose home. As soon as she slept, he told himself, he would get to the console room, active the emergency protocol and the TARDIS would take them back to the Powell Estate, where Jackie and Mickey would be waiting to take care of her.

In the end he only had to wait another couple of hours before Rose told him she was going to take a shower. Getting out of bed and walking anywhere was a terrible idea, and he knew he certainly shouldn't be attempting to pilot the TARDIS, despite this he didn't see that he had any choice.

"I'll rest once Rose is home," he told the TARDIS, as he stumbled through the corridors back to the console room. "So don't fuss, I won't let anything happen to her, or you either."

The lights flickered, the neural circuits pushing him gently, trying to aid him.

The coordinates for the Powell Estate were still set as the previous destination, although he knew he would have to fine tune the final part of the landing. Couldn't have them arriving at the same moment he'd sent Rose home before. He was feeling bad enough as it was without causing temporal paradox by carelessness.

The landing was hard, and the Doctor was relatively sure they'd hit a couple of buildings on the way in, as the impacts had been enough topple him to the floor and then smack him soundly into the side of one of the coral supports.

Sore and dizzy, he used it to pull himself upright. Then, stumbling from column to pilar, he made his way to the door.

The chill air of London in winter hit him as he opened it, and the Doctor belatedly realised that he was still clad in nothing but his underwear. This fact however paled into insignificance as he found himself face to face with Jackie Tyler.

"Where are your clothes?" Jackie asked indignantly, shock rapidly turning to distrust and anger. "And where's my Rose? What you done with her?"

"Brought her home. Promised." The Doctor closed his eyes, fingers gripping tight to the door frame as he fought to stay conscious. "Safe. She safe now."

Rose shouted something from inside the TARDIS, but he couldn't make out the words over the rushing noise in his ears. Then for the second time in almost as many days the Doctor collapsed insensible to the ground.

TBC

Aiming to post on Sunday for part 3. And yes, there will be an AU take on the Sycorax Christmas episode, mostly in part 4. I hope nobody will mind too much that the whirly Christmas trees of doom and the deadly Santas will not be putting in an appearance.


	3. Part 3

The Doctor wasn't precisely sure of how much time had passed between collapsing at Jackie's feet and waking up aching and miserable from another fever induced nightmare in Rose's old bed room. He was dimly aware that this lack of awareness should tell him something significant about why he was so sick, but forcing his thoughts into any form of coherent order escaped him.

As one day turned into a second, the Doctor came to the conclusion that he had to look every bit as dreadful as he felt: what other possible explanation was there for Jackie being nice to him? Even Mickey had been round to give an awkward apology about wrenching open the TARDIS, and then even more awkwardly offering to help with any repairs. Like knowing how to fix the exhaust on Ford Fiesta in a back street garage was in some way adequate preparation to know how to recalibrate a rematerialization circuit.

He didn't know if Rose had told either of them about what had happened on the Game Station. Not that he was sure how much Rose remembered of having the time vortex in her head or what he'd done to remove it. As little as possible he hoped, the human mind wasn't mean to hold so much. As for the kiss, it really had been the fastest, most practical way to transfer the energy that was killing her to himself. It didn't have to mean anything more.

There didn't seem anything to be gained in mentioning any of it. The Doctor didn't see what he'd done as anything heroic or special. There wasn't anything else he could have done. He could hardly have let her die, not when she'd just saved the whole universe. Not when she'd saved him from both the Daleks and from himself.

As the second day progressed into the third the Doctor drifted in and out of sleep and conscious with no discernible pattern in what caused his fever rise or fall. That he wasn't getting an worse was of little comfort when he wasn't getting any better either.

The sound of a door being opened roused him from another strange and disjointed dream. He blinked, the light spilling in from Jackie's living room making his eyes water. "Rose?"

"No, it's Jackie. Rose is talking to Mickey. He's been worried sick about her, not that he'll admit it, but that's men for you," she said, sitting down on the chair that had been placed by the bed. "Look I don't know exactly what happened up there, but I know it was bad. Rose said you were willing to die to save her, not once but twice, and I believe her."

The Doctor didn't reply. The dream he'd been caught in until a few moments before had been disorientating. Disjointed fragments of memories, splitting and whirling like pieces of a broken kaleidoscope, the overwhelming sense of falling and being buffeted about by unseen currents. Rolling onto his side the Doctor tried to ignore the nauseated feeling in his all too empty stomach and waited for the room to stop spinning.

"The thing is Rose isn't gonna to be happy until she knows you're going to be alright, so what do I need to do? Jackie asked, showing no sign of leaving him alone. "I mean is there some alien medicine you need? Or something we've got here in London?"

"Don't know," the Doctor replied, voice weak and scratchy. "Never happened before, should have been impossible."

"I know Rose says I can't take you to hospital, being as you aren't human," Jackie went on completely undeterred, "but you can't go on like this, can you? Barely drinking, and you've not eaten at thing. Is there like a space NHS out there we can call? I mean you call yourself the Doctor, doesn't your planet have any real doctors? Maybe one of them could come here?"

"No." It's much harsher than he intended, but he can't talk about it. Not in the state he's in.

"No need to snap, I'm trying to help, aren't I? but really aren't there no space doctors out there at all?" Jackie sounded sceptical.

"Not for my kind, they're gone. I-" He only just managed to stop himself, because he isn't going to do this with Jackie Tyler of all people, he's not baring his soul to her. She wouldn't understand. Nobody could ever understand. And they could never forgive him. He didn't deserve it.

"Hey, mum you want a cuppa? Mickey's just gone to get some milk, ours is off." Rose looked round the door. "Doctor, do you want anything?"

The Doctor doubted 'to be left alone because it's all he deserves' would be an acceptable answer. So he shook his head and closed his eyes. "Sleep."

"Mum, can we have a minute? Before the Doctor goes to sleep again," Rose asked, although it was clear she wasn't going to take no for an answer. "Please?"

"Alright," Jackie said reluctantly, "but think about it, there must be somebody who can help."

"Thought you might be in need of a rescue," Rose said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Mum can be… " She sighed, sounding exhausted. "She means well, she does, but sometimes… sometimes. She really does your head in."

The Doctor silently took her hand in his, holding it tightly until finally the sick feeling abated and he drifted back to uneasy sleep.

The Doctor wasn't sure what had woken him from the half asleep state he'd been drifting in. He wasn't even certain at first whether he was actually awake at all. Hot and uncomfortable, he lay there in the darkness and listened. After a minute he heard it again.

Crying. Soft and muffled. Like it was intentionally being hidden. He doubted it was Jackie, so that only left Rose. And it didn't matter how awful he felt there was absolutely no possible chance he was going to lay in bed and listen helplessly to her cry.

He was unsteady on his feet, but the Doctor told himself that if he moved slowly, and held onto walls and doors he could reach her without ending up in an undignified heap on the floor.

It was only a room away, but he was shaking with the effort of remaining on his feet by the time he was close enough to see her. Curled up in the sofa, her face pressed against the sleeve of her dressing gown, Rose tried to hide her tears.

"Oh Rose."

She looked round sharply, eyes wet with tears and wide in surprise. "Shh you'll wake Mum," she said in an urgent whisper, before adding, "You shouldn't be out of bed."

"You needed me," the Doctor replied, starting to sag against the door.

Getting up she, put an arm around him and helped him cover the last few steps to the sofa. "I'd have been okay. Don't want you getting worse 'cause of me."

Sinking down onto the sofa beside her with a barely repressed groan, the Doctor said softly, "I won't."

Rose bit her lip, not looking at him, her hands twisting in her lap.

"Rose, what is it?"

"Jacks gone, and I've barely thought about him since... Since..." Rose's eyes were puffy and red as she looked at him. "It's Christmas, and I hadn't even got him a present, or you. I'd forgotten and now he's gone. He's really gone. And I know we can't bring him back, because that how time is, but it's not fair. It just not fair."

The Doctor couldn't think of any comforting words, and she was right there was no way for him to make anything better. So he put an arm around her and held tight her as started to sob.

Only as he felt her start to calm, her shoulders no longer shaking, did he speak. "Jackie would understand," he said, not wanting her to have to hide, he knew all to well how grief would eat you alive if you let it. "I don't always see eye to eye with her, but give her a chance."

"I can't, not about this. I'm only out here 'cause I didn't wanna wake her," she replied, weariness bourn of grief creeping into her voice. "I've not told her about Jack and you're not gonna do it either. If Mum knew how dangerous it can be she wouldn't want me going back, she make a fuss. But I have to, I have to stay with you, I can't lose you too."

The Doctor can't speak. He shouldn't let her stay. He'll get her killed if she stays with him. Yet he can't do it.. He can't send her away again any more than he could have sealed the doors to Van Statten's vault for a second time.

In that nightmare bunker she'd seen him raging nearly out of his mind in anger and grief and fear. And there hadn't been disappointment in her eyes that he wasn't some indestructible hero, whose actions were always beyond reproach. She'd seen he was broken. That he was all jagged edges that didn't fit comfortably into the universe or his own life anymore. She'd seen him, worse seen through him and it didn't scare her. It didn't seem to matter to her what he'd done, what given the provocation he could do again (and doesn't that thought scare him), not even what might happen to her if she stayed could make her turn away. No, she'd looked at him, seen the pain and desperation in his eyes, and answered with nothing but care and understanding.

And that was why he couldn't lose her. Because if Rose Tyler cared about him then maybe, just maybe there was something left in him that was still worth saving. The Doctor was half certain he was lying to himself, but tonight he was weak and lost and lonely, so for now he let himself believe.

He couldn't find the words to say any of it aloud, and maybe he never would, such things had never come easily to him even before his current regeneration. So he held her close until they both finally fell asleep.

The Doctor woke to the sound of someone hammering on the front door and Rose, already awake and dressed, rushing past him to open it. He'd barely had time to sit up on the sofa before Mickey hurried past and switched the TV on.

"Look, Rose I know he's not well, but there's aliens and they've got people up on the roof," Mickey said, pressing multiple buttons on the TV remote in his haste to change the channel. "Rajesh, from the garage, his mum is up there and old Mr Peebles. I think they're gonna make them jump."

"But he's got a walking frame," Jackie exclaimed, as if that was somehow more surprising than aliens making people leap from high buildings.

Mickey managed to find the correct channel in time, and they all watched in silence as Harriet Jones' gave her speech. After the her final plea for the Doctor, if he could hear her, to come to Earths aid, Mickey muted the TV.

Rose looked at the Doctor, who was once again shivering despite the heat radiating from him. "What are we gonna go?"

"Do? What I always do, I'm going to stop them," the Doctor said with far more confidence than he felt. "Come on." He stood up, then almost immediately sat back down again as his legs shook and threatened to give way beneath him.

"How?" Jackie looked at him and then at Rose. "You can't even stand up. Rose tell him. He's not well. There must be someone else."

It was a perfectly good and sensible question, and one to which the Doctor had absolutely no answer, so he promptly ignored it. "Just get me to the TARDIS."

Rose put a hand on his arm, clearly worried but still willing to back him up. "You sure?"

He wasn't, but he nodded anyway.

Mickey looked at them like they were both mad, then sighed, resigned to going along with whatever happened next, as he knew he'd do whatever Rose asked. "Alright, so where we going?"

Moments later, supported between Rose and Mickey, the Doctor unsteadily made his way out of the flats and down to where the TARDIS was waiting. He had no idea what he was going to do, which was something that happened far more often than any who had travelled with him probably ever realised. Whatever it was though, he thought, giddy from the effort of looking up at the people lining the roof edges above, he'd have to think of it soon.

TBC

Aiming to update with the last part around midweek, Wednesday most likely.

Notes.

Please don't worry that I've not changed things so that Jack is dead. He's not. Both Rose and the Doctor think that Jack is dead. But for Jack what happened in Parting of the Ways still holds true.


	4. Part 4

"Right, I'll go and see what your mums doing," Mickey said, as soon as he and Rose had helped the Doctor to a seat by the TARDIS console. "You won't go anywhere before I get back, will you?"

"Course not," Rose replied. "And you be careful, no going up to the roof and trying to help. I don't wanna be having to look after you too."

Mickey looked like he was going to say something, then thought better of it, choosing to look vaguely disappointed instead.

Shivering, the effort of walking having driven up his fever again, the Doctor sat hunched over as he tried to ignore the waves of dizziness that threatened to plunge him back into unconsciousness. He had to focus on what he knew of the Sycorax, which admittedly was as much as he'd hoped, what variety of technology they might be using, which was useless speculation until he knew where in their planets history there were, and how he could stop them.

Mickey barely seemed to have left before the TARDIS lurched in a way that had nothing to do with its own propulsion systems, and they clung to the seat in an effort not to be thrown to the floor.

It wasn't successful, and the next thing the Doctor was aware of was that he was lying on the floor by the console, Rose's pink hoody folded up and placed under his head. Rose herself was nowhere in sight.

Outside he could hear Harriet Jones and some men whose voices he didn't recognise. Then Rose joined in trying her best to calm the situation.

There was a sharp crackle of an energy weapon being fired and then scream. Male. Not Rose.

He had to do something, if only he could think. Think, that was it. If only he could think clearly then for a little while he could override his useless sick body, force it to do what he wanted at least for a little while and get on with making the Sycorax leave.

Override, neural override that was it. The Time Lords had only ever really thought of the body as convenient and ultimate disposable vehicle for transporting the mind around in. All he needed was his mind to be working. No, more than just working, the Doctor told himself, he needed it to be better than that. He looked around, dizzy and disorientated. He should have some neural stimulant somewhere in the console room, all TARDIS' had carried it, in case of psychic attack. There hadn't been many species that could best a Time Lord in psychic ability, but the Time War had seen the creation of weapons that had made it necessary.

The TARDIS lights flickered, drawing the Doctor over to a drawer low in the console. He fumbled opening the case inside it, dropping it twice before he managed to prise open the lid. The two small hypo-injectors each held a single dose. Hoping that he wouldn't need more than that he took the first and pressed it against his neck. The effect was almost instantaneous, and the Doctor fell to the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream as for a brief, blinding moment it felt as if his head might explode. Then just as quickly it was over.

Panting, he knelt on the floor, his hands pressed flat against the gratings. It had worked. It was strange, rather like he was controlling a virtual reality simulation of himself. All the aches and pains and crushing exhaustion were still there, but they were abstract things that he could now ignore. At least until the neural stimulant wore off, then...well he'd deal with that when it happened. Although he doubted it was possible to feel much worse than he had previously.

He could hear Rose trying to bluff them. It was never going to work, even if she'd known the correct rules and regulations, the Sycorax weren't exactly known for respecting anything but strength and military might. No, they'd seen the Earth and thought it was weak, undefended, an easy target. Time to tell them how wrong they were.

The Doctor knew he looked ridiculous wearing nothing but faded pyjama trousers, but he could hardly take the time to get changed. He doubted whether the stimulant would given more than half an hour of useful activity. It should really have given double that, but in his already weakened state he knew he couldn't count on it.

The first thing he needed to do was remove the immediate threat to the people who'd been mind controlled. He took advantage of the fact that the Prime Minister was arguing loudly with the lead Sycorax who had been doing most of the talking and all of the killing. Walking quickly out of the TARDIS, he went directly to their control station, ignoring for the moment the angry shouts from the aliens and the delighted one from Rose.

It took less than a minute for him to realise how they'd been controlling people. Blood control, he'd not seen that in years, it was nostalgic really, well it would have been if wasn't being used to try and murder a few hundred million people. Not that it actually would, it could compel them to stand at the edge, but it couldn't make them take the final step and jump. So he called the Sycoraxs' bluff and pressed the button before anybody had a chance to stop him.

The Doctor explained what he'd done. He wasn't entirely sure anyone had actually understood any of it beyond the fact nobody was dead. Talking at the speed his mind was working didn't really make for the most coherent of conversations.

"Who are you?" The Sycorax asked, snarling and angry now that their plan had been ruined.

"The Doctor," he said grinning them. "Heard of me? Earth is under my protection. So unless you want trouble you should leave." The smile disappeared. "Right now."

There was a moments pause, then the Sycorax snarled, "We shall have this planet, Doctor. You name yourself their protector, so a challenge now stands." A second Sycorax brought forward a pair of swords. It took one and then threw the other down in front of the Doctor. Its red eyes, almost glowed at the prospect of battle. "Let us settle this by right of combat."

All around him from arching galleries, balconies and walkways the Sycorax cheered and snarled and beat their gauntletted fists on their bony breastplates. The Doctor looked down at the sword. If he didn't pick it up they'd probably shoot him where he stood, yet if he did take it he doubted he could win the fight. Picking it up though would give him a few more moments to try and do something, anything that might turn things in his favour. So he did.

"Outside then," he shouted, trying to make himself heard over the noise. "We'll do this properly, where the world can see. They might as well I'm doing for them."

The Doctor had no illusions about anybody actually seeing him, they were half a mile up: it was a relief really, he didn't want an audience. The cold air and the altitude would work in his favour, the Sycorax preferred warmth and humidity to prevent their exoskeletons from becoming too hard and dry.

Bringing the sword up into a defensive position, the Doctor decided that he didn't like it. He was reasonable certain that he'd actually learnt to fence once, it might have even been during his last regeneration or it could have been before that. He wasn't sure, things were jumbled, especially where his last body was concerned - he'd spent so many years living in so many places with not the faintest of clues who he was or what he was doing there.

The sword he was holding wasn't designed for fencing, it was too heavy, just an ugly lump of metal with a pointy end and bit of an edge. No finesse, but maybe that was better, he thought, there shouldn't be anything glamorous in ending a life. He was aware that his mind was running with far too many thoughts, that it was drifting off from doing what it was supposed to be doing. Equally he wasn't sure how to make it stop.

The Sycorax however had no such distractions and as soon as the Doctor's guard wavered, it struck out, the tip of its blade cutting into his side.

The Doctor stumbled back, confused more than hurt, the disconnection between his body and mind making the pain is a distant, abstract thing, like he was watching it happen to somebody else. Blood loss however was something he knew could do without, even if Time Lord could lose more than a human and be completely fine. Yet it didn't seem to be bleeding as it should. Energy crackled across his fingertips as he touched the wound and suddenly it all made sense.

There was energy still trapped in him. A warring mix if conflicting energy left by his failed regeneration and the heart of the TARDIS, and the cause of the heat still burning through him. It needed draining, like infection from a wound. Then he could heal. All he needed to do was decide the best way to remove it.

The Sycorax wasn't willing to let him have the time to think about this, and opened up another cut, this time on his arm, with a roar of triumph.

Rose was holding Harriet Jones' hand, scared to look, but too scared to look away.

The Doctor felt the same twist of energy, drawing closed the edges of the cut. "That all you've got?"

Sycorax snarled at him, teeth bared in its fury. "Kneel before me and die. You are beaten. You cannot win."

"Never a good idea to tell me that," the Doctor said enthusiastically grinning at him, wanting to unsettle his opponent. "It never works out well. You should be the one surrendering." He lowered his sword. "You could surrender now and you could all leave here unharmed. You have my word."

With a roar the Sycorax advanced on him again, battering the Doctor's sword, until he lost his grip on it. Then with a yell of triumph it dropped its own weapon and grasped the Doctor tightly by the throat. Lifting him off his feet with easy, it shook him, and slammed him down hard against the deck.

Rose was yelling at them to stop, that they were going to hurt him, kill him.

The Doctor stared up wild eyed at the creature pinning him to the ground. He couldn't breathe, which didn't make sense as he knew his respiratory bypass system should give him five minutes at least. The scene in front of him wavered, a host of memories crowded in. Echoing stone halls on Mars, a robot's cold fingers about his throat. The open deck of another ship, one of the shield platforms high over Arcadia, the sky was burning overhead as the bombardment increased.

He blinked and groaned, the world briefly coming back into focus. He couldn't reach his sword and honestly, he wasn't sure what he'd do even if he could. There was one possibility left and he pressed his hand against the side of the Sycorax's head and let their minds meet. It was frowned upon, but he was desperate, and it wasn't like the High Council could haul him in and put him on trial. "You want to know what I can do?" he said directly into its mind, his voice raw from all he saw and felt. "Then look."

The Sycorax was still for a moment and then its grip loosened and it screamed, its head jerking back as it tried to escape.

"Look!" the Doctor shouted, mere inches from its face, his grip tightening on its head. "Look at it. Now do you still want to fight me? Or do you want to run?"

The Sycorax screamed again, beating its head and the air around it with its fists. A glancing blow struck the Doctor's hand, breaking the link, both of them falling back on the deck.

Even with link broken the Sycorax howled. Lurching to its feet it stumbled away from. Whether it meant to go so close the edge, the Doctor had no idea, yet the result is the same. One moment it was on the edge, its head clutched in its hand, the next it was gone, tumbled over the edge and into oblivion.

"No!" The cry is torn from him, he hadn't meant for this to happen, for it to die. He hadn't meant to take another life. "No." It was a whisper now, as he looked the blood on his hands. The Doctor knew that was his own, remembered touching the now vanished wound on his side, but the symbolism, the guilt, still stood.

Shivering, weary, and all too aware that the stimulant was starting to fail, the Doctor used the dead Sycorax's discarded sword to help lever himself to his feet. He stood swaying slightly as he glared at them with cold fury. "You wanted to watch one of us die. Now one of your own is dead. Let that be enough. You will leave and you will never return. The Earth is defended. It will always be defended."

With no further argument the Sycorax teleported them and the TARDIS down into a deserted, litter strewn back street, not far from the Powell Estate. Still leaning on the sword for support, the Doctor was content let Rose do most of the talking. He was rubbish at what he called being domestic at the best of times.

"What's that?" Rose asked suddenly, looking up at the sky. Five huge beams of energy streaked high above them, before converging and shooting out towards the retreating Sycorax ship. The explosion a few seconds later flashing across the sky like virulent green lighting.

"They were leaving," the Doctor said looking at the continued flashes and crackles of light above them in anger and disbelief. "We'd won. I'd stopped them. No one else had to die."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, they could have come back or others like them," Harriet said, standing her ground. "This was too close, too many lives could have been lost."

"Not as many as they've just lost," he retorted. "That was murder."

"They came to enslave and kill us," she said refusing to raise her voice in anger. "I did what I had to do."

"You did it once you were safe. If I'd lost, would you have ordered them to fire if you'd still be onboard?" he asked, challenging her to contradict him. "Could you have ordered it then?"

"Yes, I would, Doctor. You may only see the insignificant human Prime Minister of a small island, but this country has stood alone before in the face of danger before and we did what had to be done no matter the personal cost." There was defiance and fire in her eyes, but her voice was still level, like she was addressing her cabinet. "So tell me Doctor if this were your planet, if it were your people facing slavery or annihilation how far would you go to keep them safe?"

Once he'd had that choice, more than half his lives ago, he'd had that chance. He could have destroyed the Daleks completely and forever. And he'd failed. Worse, he'd refused, he'd told himself he didn't have that right or power to snuff out an entire species. Even one so focused on destruction as they Daleks. If he'd known in that moment what was to come to, could he have done it? Or would still have doomed them?

Perhaps this was Harriet Jones' deciding moment, perhaps she had saved Earth from some threat he's not even realised. After everything that happened with Satellite 5 becoming the Game Station he doesn't know if he can trust his own memories of what the future should be. He hung his head, sick and exhaustion washing over him. He didn't have any answers for her, at least none that made him feel better about any of it. He knew he could destroy her career, just a few words, six little words that was all it would take and it would all come tumbling down, but what would be the point? They had the weapon now, and a terrible as it was there were far worse people to have control of it than Harriet Jones.

Realising that he wasn't going to answer her, Harriet stepped forwards, offering him her hand. "I appreciate everything you've done for us, Doctor, I really do, but you're only one man and one day maybe you won't be here or you'll be too late. You can't ask us to be defenceless, not when you know what is out there."

"Don't become the enemy. Don't make me have to stop you." He looked at her, pain in his eyes, then turned away, too dispirited and tired to argue any further. "Come on, Rose, time to go."

TBC

Notes*.

The neural stimulant is a plot device for this story, but the ability of the Time Lords to control their body, even down to the cellular level, using their mind is, once again, from 8th Doctor novels and quite possibly Classic!Who as well, although I couldn't quote which episodes (I've not seen all that many of classic series) .

The chance the Doctor had to destroy the Daleks once and for all come from the 4th Doctor episodes The Genesis of the Daleks.

Yes I know this should have been the last part, but it totally got away from me, and Harriet Jones wanted her say, and while I don't agree with her call at the end in shooting the Sycorax down, they were beaten, I get why she did it.

I know this part was rather lacking in Doctor/Rose interaction, but the last part which will be posted in the next few days will be pretty much nothing else.


	5. Part 5

The come down from the neural stimulant was unpleasant. Physically, the Doctor decided, he felt no worse than he had before he'd taken it, which admittedly was hardly a positive outcome. He supposed that he should have realised that something that affected the brain chemistry would probably psychological aftereffects. Not that it would have stopped him using it, but he thought he would have had time to been better prepared for the dreadful riptide of emotions that now threatened to drag him under.

He could fight it, he told himself, he had to fight it. Reeling from the door to a coral strut, he finally reached the central console.

The TARDIS hummed mournfully, her controls refusing to respond as she tried to tell him that she was deeply unhappy with him attempting to pilot her in his current state.

Rose watched him wth growing concern, finally asking, "What are you doing?"

The Doctor didn't answer, his mind racing one moment then freezing the next. He needed to get out into the time vortex, they'd be safe there. Then he could tell Rose he needed something from a particularly distant storeroom, then he could take the other stimulant, then he'd remove the remaining energy and then it would be alright. Not alright, not in the way things used to be, but he'd not been alright in a very long time. He was used to it. No, that wasn't right either, he wasn't used to it, but he was able to cope with it. Mostly. Usually. He'd be better if he could get them away. Get them somewhere safe. He had to make sure she was safe.

"Doctor? What are you doing?"

He didn't look up from where he was trying without success to get the propulsion system to engage. "Leaving."

"What do you mean leaving?" Rose exclaimed, moving closer to him. "We can't just go. Mum and Mickey'll be worried sick, they don't know we weren't on that ship when it blew up."

"Of course we can, Time Machine remember. We can be back before they even know we're gone." He grinned at her. It was manic, but it was that or face everything that had happened and he wasn't doing that - he couldn't do that, so he was going to run. "So where'd you want to go? We could go to Barcelona, either of them, both of them. Or what about going back to Woman Wept? We never saw the southern ocean, did we? I could show you the Crystal moons of Plaxma Seti five. We could see the meteorids burn up through the atmospheric coruscation of-"

"Last time you said that I was gone for a year," Rose said firmly, arms crossed. "So no."

"No? What do you mean no? What-" Then it hit him. Of course it was no. What else could it be? She'd nearly died, Jack had died and he'd been all but useless ever since then. The Doctor swallowed hard, holding on tighter to the edge of the console as a wave of dizziness washed over him. It would be better like this, he told himself, at least she'd be safe. He took a deep breath and replied, "Off you go then, back to Mickey. Powell Estate is just round the corner."

Rose stared at him, not quite believing what he'd said. She was about to tell him just how wrong he was when she saw the case which had held the neural stimulant abandoned on the floor. "What's that?" There was fear for him in her eyes. "What did you do? What did you take?"

"I had to." The Doctor closed his eyes, the sudden irrational fear that he'd somehow taken sometime else, something deadly, clawed though him. The rational part of him said it was purely down to a temporary neuro-chemical imbalance caused by using the stimulant, and that in an hour or so he would feel a bit sick and headachy, but otherwise in control. The irrational part just screamed.

"Doctor?"

Her voice sounded so far away. Had she left? Had he lost her yet? He'd lost everything, everyone else, over and over again. Even if Rose was still there it was only a matter of time until she wasn't. It always happened in the end. They'd left him or he'd left them, but he'd needed them, all of them. Just because he always ended up alone in the end didn't mean what went before hadn't been worth it. All those wonderful, fantastic people he'd known, he missed them all. He forced himself to breathe, a ragged intake of air that sounded too much like a sob. The next was no better, and he was horrified to feel the damp slide of tears down his cheeks.

Rose placed her hand on top of his, squeezing it as she'd done so many times when he'd been lost in feverish nightmares. "It's okay. It's over. We're okay."

It was gentle, but the Doctor was certain it was going to break him. The little control he had left slipped further. "It's not." His legs trembled, threatening to give way beneath him and he hung his head, "I'm not."

"You will be," Rose said, getting one of his arms about her shoulders, letting him lean against her. "You just need to rest."

No amount of rest would help, it wouldn't get her back. No, that wasn't right, Rose was there with him. He forced himself to open his eyes and look at her.

As long as he could see her she was there. He just needed enough energy to keep them open. Energy, not more energy, less energy.

"Energy, that's it," the Doctor said suddenly, remembering what he had planned to do. "I need to get it out of me. The time energy. It's in my room."

"Which room?" Rose looked around. "The whole TARDIS is yours."

"Bedroom. And not really. She's her own, mind of her own too. I stole her once, you know," he said, mind racing. All he needed to do was keep his mind on how to reconfigure whichever energy charging or discharging or transferring device he'd left in there.

"You stole your own TARDIS and you keep time energy in your bedroom?" Rose sounded sceptical, not entirely convinced that Doctor was actually lucid.

"Not energy. Energy remover. I keep lots of things in there. I don't sleep much. I don't like sleeping." He stumbled, almost taking them both to the floor. "Slept more in the past week than in years. Wait, it's over there." He blinked, the corridor blurring for a moment. "I think."

It was. It was also rather more of a mess than he'd remembered it being. Clothes left on a chair, bed left unmade, and a variety of pieces of technology that spanned numerous centuries and galaxies piled or stacked on most available surfaces, including the floor.

Rose squashed down a laugh a she said, "And mum thinks my room is untidy."

"I know where everything is," the Doctor replied rather defensive of what was to be honest barely organised chaos. Perhaps once he felt better he might sort some of it out. He doubted it.

"So why do we need this time energy thing?" Rose asked as she helped him avoid a pile of books on the floor next to the bed, so he could finally sit down.

"Trapped energy, temporal energy. I need to release it. I didn't realise it was there until I was fighting. See?" He gestured to where the Sycorax's sword had cut into his arm. Nothing remained apart from a thin, faint line.

Rose looked around, then back at him. "What do you need?"

It took a few minutes, the Doctor telling Rose what he needed, then having to describe it as there was no possible way she could know what an Oncharian energy circuit or a Braaxti decompensation switch looked like.

"Anything else?" Rose asked depositing two coiled green and blue cables, a thing that looked like a brush attachment for a steam cleaner and packet of oversized fuses.

"Tea." The Doctor frowned, not quite sure why when he was burning up a hot drink sounded like a sensible request. Although he'd want it once he was done, he reasoned, tea went with inventing things. He'd really liked inventing things once and he'd liked tea back when he'd been somebody else. He'd not particularly thought about it since... No, he wasn't revisiting though memories anytime soon. "Tea," he said again, trying to order his uncooperative thoughts. "I really want some tea."

"Right now?" Rose asked doubtfully. "I should stay until you've done..." She stopped and looked at the jumble of wires and odd parts he'd asked her to leave on his bed. "Making whatever that is."

"Energy discharger." He opened the back of the a device that looked like a broken set of giant curling tongs, but was in fact a 53rd century engineering tool designed for rapidly discharging quasi-temporal power cells. "It just needs a few alternations."

"Better go get that tea then," Rose said reluctantly, not looking particularly happy or reassured about leaving the Doctor alone. Not when he was shivering, occasionally talking to himself about what he was doing and dropping nearly as many things as he was picking up.

The Doctor waited until she'd left, then signed. He really didn't like lying to her. She'd got every right to be suspicious, as while he really did want tea, what he really wanted was for her not to witness the energy extraction. It would be unpleasant and quite possibly painful, and after all she's had to deal with he couldn't bear the idea of putting her through watching this too.

The amount of adjustment was minimal, half of the things he'd asked for he didn't need, he wasn't even sure why he'd wanted them. The fact was there was nothing to be gained by waiting. He just needed to get it over and done with.

Determined that he wasn't going to cry out and bring Rose running back to him the Doctor picked up the discarded handle of some device he'd previously dismantled. He considered it for a moment, then placed it between his teeth. Then taking a tight grip on the modified discharger, he switched it on.

It felt so very wrong, the trapped temporal energy wrenching free, burning through his veins, racing to reach the device, from where it could be discharged back to the TARDIS.

Sliding off the edge of the bed, he curled into a ball on the floor and waited for to be over.

The only positive, the Doctor decided once it was done and he'd finally stopped shaking, was that it had been quick. That and the fact he was incredibly unlikely to need to do it ever again.

By the time Rose returned he'd managed get up from the floor, put on a jumper and huddle under the covers in his bed. He was exhausted and achingly cold, but otherwise well. A couple of hours sleep would fix all that, the Doctor told himself, then they really could be off. There was absolutely no reason that they'd ever have to speak of what had happened. Perhaps he could even claim not to remember. Although given what his previous body had been through in terms of amnesia perhaps it would be tempting fate. Not that he believed in fate.

"Sorry it took so long," Rose said putting down two mugs on the bedside table. "I think the TARDIS is having a bit of a redesign, the kitchen had moved, talk about rubbish timing."

"She does that sometimes," the Doctor replied. The TARDIS had done it frequently enough in the past that it didn't worry him: she had once seemed to have actively enjoy confusing his travelling companions and him. He suspected this time however that she'd done it for him, or maybe for herself, wanting the energy transfer to go as seamlessly as possible. Either way he was glad of it.

"I phoned mum while I was making the tea, and told her we're both okay," Rose said, sitting down on the bed next to him. "She wants us to come round later and stay for Christmas dinner."

Christmas dinner with Jackie Tyler and Mickey Smith was not the Doctor's idea of fun. But he knew how much it would mean to Rose, and after all she'd been through recently he felt he could hardly say no. He was about to agree to it when Rose spoke again.

"Before we do though," she said, something nervous creeping into her voice. "We need to talk about things. If you feel okay. It can wait, if you don't."

"I don't want you to go," the Doctor said almost without thinking. "What I said before, I didn't mean it."

"What? that? I know you didn't mean it," she said brushing it aside. "It's about us. About You and me."

The Doctor looked at her not certain whether he was relieved that it wasn't about what he'd done to the Sycorax or not.

Taking his silence as sign to continue, Rose pressed on, "I mean I know I told Adam and Charles Dickens and that blue alien in the year Five Billion that we weren't...that we aren't...well you know what I mean. But I've thought about it, about us. That we could be like that, if you wanted it." She smiled at him, trying to convince him and herself that the answer wouldn't matter. "I mean if you're not interested in me, if it's not like that for you, that it won't ever be. I want you to tell me." She bit her lip and looked down. "Because even if it is like that, I want you to know I'm still gonna want to stay with you. I told you before, you don't get rid of me that easily."

The Doctor closed his eyes, almost wishing it had been about the Sycorax after all. He was in no state to have this conversation, not with the remnants of the neural stimulant playing havoc with his emotions. Yet he knew it was probably only in conditions such as this that he'd ever tell Rose the truth. It was madness, she was so young and full of life, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but love wasn't commanded by reason and in that moment neither was he.

Opening his eyes and looked at her, at the nervous hope on her face that was mirrored in his own. Then slowly he leant towards her, a hand tangling in her hair, and kissed her.

There was no burn of temporal energy this time, no dreadful life or death choices to be made. It was just them, Rose smiling against his lips, the sweet fruit taste of her lipgloss, her hand warm and real over his hearts. And it was fantastic.

After only a few moments the Doctor was dizzy with tiredness, and he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. He felt shaky, emotionally off centre in a way he wasn't sure he could entirely able to blame on the mostly dissipated chemicals in his brain.

Rose looked at him with what he could only describe as love, her hand brushing against his cheek, her smile surprised and delighted.

This was, the Doctor thought, the moment when he should tell her how much he loved her, how he'd realised it way back when he thought he'd lost her to Van Statten's Dalek, how it had grown since then into something that he hadn't dared to mention, because he'd been all but certain she didn't have that kind of feeling for him. The words refused to come, so he hugged her and hoped that she'd understand.

It wasn't the most romantic of settings, sitting in bed, Rose by his side, drinking tea, but it felt good, right. It was silly really, but it was the happiest he'd been since the moment in the cafe in Cardiff, just before they'd realised that Blon the Slitheen was there. Things had spiralled so badly out of control after that. He refused to think about it, not wanting to spoil the moment.

It was a nice moment. He wasn't sure he's ever really appreciated nice before. The Doctor thought that he would from now on, try to make a little bit of time each day for something that is nice. It felt odd to make plans, even such small ones, for things that weren't really necessary, as if it was wrong somehow, that he didn't really deserve such things anymore.

Once, he was certain, such things had come easily to him, it strange and a little unsettling to realise how much of who'd he'd been was lost now. The Doctor knew there wasn't a way back to being the person he'd once been. All the horrors he'd seen over all those lifetimes none of them had prepared him for the last great Time War. Nothing could have. All the hope and joy, the excitement and wonder at the universe that he'd had had turned to ashes and dust. It had burnt along with Gallifrey, along with his capacity for anything other than grief and rage. Or at least so he had thought.

Then he'd met Rose. Ordinary and extraordinary all the same time. She'd challenged him to care and pushed him with every little act of kindness to live again rather than just survive. He'd needed her, probably more than she needed him. Letting her into his life and and hearts had been terrifying, it still was, yet worse was the idea of going back to being alone.

Half asleep, he watched Rose drink her tea, send about a dozen text messages wishing people happy Christmas, and finally phoning Jackie to tell her they would be there for Christmas Dinner.

He might not have spoken the words aloud yet, he hoped one day he'd have the courage to, but he knew he'd loved her. And that she loved him, and for now that was all he needed.

Notes.

Thank you to all the commenters, kudosers, lurkers and everybody else. Well its finally got to the end.

The TARDIS having lots of rooms and the ability to move them around is mostly a classic!Who and Eighth Doctor novels thing, but there doesn't seem to be any reason to think that these rooms no longer exist, as things like the wardrobe rooms have been shown to be there.

I'm thinking about writing a short, single part follow on about what happens after Christmas Dinner. But it might be a week or two before I do and get it posted.

This fic technically takes place in the same canon divergent AU set in my old fic A Different Path, which sees the Ninth Doctor almost immediately post Doomsday and all that entails, running into Ianto Jones who has failed to get hired by Torchwood Cardiff (mainly because there's no Jack Harkness there to flirt with - Jack is very much alive, confused about how he actually is still alive, and there is the intention that there will be a Ninth Doctor Jack reunion fic at some point. Although as its been in fragmentary form in a word doc for the last 6 or 7 years I'm not sure how soon that will happen.)

There is also the idea for a prequel that's Eighth Doctor/Fitz Kreiner, the longest standing companion from the Eight Doctor books, and one with whom even in book canon has an interesting relationship with the Doctor. (For interesting read massively, massivley complicated, with Fitz being utterly devoted to the Doctor, and the Doctor really being quite reliant on him in many of the books.)

Not that the prequel fic would end up all that happy either, because honestly there absolutely no way that Fitz would have left the Eighth Doctor to go off and fight in the Time War alone, short of the Doctor actively taking him somewhere and abandoning him. So you probably know where this is going.

I'm also of the opinion (well me and a fair few others from what I've seen mostly on the old livejournal comms) that the leather jacket that the Ninth Doctor wears is the one Fitz used to have, based off descriptions we get of it.

Seriously I need to write something that is fun. But what I also need to do is finish Last of the Rift Born. So yeah. Maybe later.


End file.
